Nobody around them batted an eye.
"Tristan's still so attentive with Tessa."
"Looks like something's brewing tonight, boys. Should we clear out?"
Tristan lifted his head and glanced at me. Panic flickered in his eyes, along with something close to a plea.
He was begging me not to make a scene.
Not to expose him. Not now.
I lowered my gaze, drained the last sip from my glass, and stood.
"Myron, I'm heading home."
Myron frowned at me. "How much did you drink? Your face is bright red. Let me drive you."
"No need. I already called a ride."
"It's too late for that. I'll have Tristan take you. He barely drank tonight."
Tristan looked up at the mention of his name, about to speak, but Tessa curled drowsily around his arm.
"Tristan, don't go..."
The room erupted in catcalls again.
Myron cleared his throat, visibly awkward. "Forget it. I'll take her myself. You guys keep going."
I followed my brother out of the private room. He walked ahead of me, then stopped and turned around.
"Doreen. Something's off with you tonight."
I looked away. "Is it?"
"Yeah."
Myron turned to face me fully, his eyes locked on mine. "When Tristan kissed Tessa, you cried."
My chest seized. I shook my head quickly. "No, I didn't. Something just got in my eye."
"Cut the crap. I'm your brother. You can fool everyone else, but not me."
Myron's brow creased, his tone turning serious.
"Do you have feelings for Tristan?"
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Feelings didn't begin to cover it.
We'd been together for eight years in secret, and he never once had the courage to bring us into the light.
"Doreen, I've warned you before. You can fall for any one of my friends. Anyone except Tristan. He—"
"Myron, stop guessing. I just drank too much and felt sick."
Myron studied me for a long time, then let out a sigh.
"Fine. Get in. I'll take you home."
After I got back, I showered and lay in bed, staring at my phone for a long time. The screen was perfectly still. Not a single message.
Every other late night, Tristan would text to ask if I'd gotten home safe.
Tonight, nothing.
He was busy taking care of Tessa. Why would he spare a thought for me?
Eight years at his side, and the moment his first love walked back in, every bit of it counted for nothing.
So why keep wasting my time?
I hesitated for a long while before I finally typed out a single line and hit send.
"Tristan, let's break up."
The message went through. I powered off my phone, pulled the covers over my head, and forced myself to sleep.
The next morning, the second I turned my phone back on, it blew up.
Over a dozen missed calls from Tristan. More than thirty messages.
The last one read: "I'm downstairs."
I pulled back the curtain. His car was parked below my building.
He was leaning against the driver's side door, smoking.
I hesitated, then went downstairs anyway.
Eight years deserved at least a proper ending.
The moment he saw me come out, Tristan crushed the cigarette and crossed the distance in quick strides.
"Dee, you're finally willing to see me."
"Just hear me out. Last night, I was only—"
I cut him off.
"Tristan, you don't need to explain."
"You got my message last night. We're done."
His head snapped up, shock written plain across his face.
"Dee, is this because of last night? Or because I never went public with us?"
"I told you, last night was just a game. I was only trying to get back at Tessa—"
